


arrhythmia

by thethrillof



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:04:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethrillof/pseuds/thethrillof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William takes his place as Captain. It might take time to get used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	arrhythmia

****

The deck of the _Flying_   _Dutchman_ is eerily quiet aside from the whispers of the newly dead, most too stupefied to know what to do with themselves.

The crew, as well.  _His_ crew.

Will— _Captain_ William Turner, and he’ll never get used to that—turns and speaks without thinking:  _Prepare to go to the other side._

And they comply, even though they shouldn’t know how. Jones abandoned his duty a long time ago; few of the crew here had been onboard long enough for them to remember

(and those that  _have_  are no longer able to help; being fused in mind, body, and soul to the  _Dutchman_ for so long has eroded their will, and they simply sit where they awoke and wait)

but the same feeling that wells up in his empty chest and slips tendrils into his mind guides them all through the motions. When he listens hard, digs deep into himself, he hears the almost-words — thoughts from the  _Dutchman_  herself, and knows that she will not steer them wrong.

(He recalls his last memory as a mortal man—faint chanting,  _part of the ship, part of the crew,_   _part of the ship, part of the crew_ —and though he knows he can do nothing about it, he doubts that this is exactly a good thing.)

The voyage through the End of the World is much shorter and much easier than his last. The end point is much more welcoming, too; instead of endless white, he spots a port enshrouded with fog and empty of other ships. There are many weather-beaten but strong docks where the dead disembark.

He watches his passengers tread slowly up the dock and onto the shore, and then they’re gone.

Belatedly, he turns to his crew and tells them that they may pass on, if that is what they wish.

That seems to be what the older ones were waiting for; they slide through the side of the ship and into the water instead of climbing down onto the dock. They sink, then resurface, and slowly float to the shore.

He looks at each of the remaining members of the crew, one by one, straight in the eyes.

They may not be bound to the debt, but they are bound to his words, and he can order them to leave or stay or send them to the Locker. Perhaps he should make a speech—but that is one skill that he hasn’t had time to practice, and words are muddling together in his head.

“I will not keep or release you against your will.”

With that, Captain Turner spins on his heel and retires to his cabin.

There is still plenty to do, many souls (new and unprepared, old and lost) left to retrieve, but he will give them due time to think.

* * *

(In the closest thing a ship has to silence, he thinks he hears a heartbeat.

But no; it’s merely the rush of sea, trying to replace what was once there.)

* * *

 

The ones that stay—and almost surprisingly, there are several—obey his orders as quickly as he casts them, but there aren’t as many duties as there once was. Their former Captain always had them working, finding sick pleasure in their feverish haste to finish their pointless tasks in fear of the cat-o-nine. Painful and constant, all the more suited to twist the mind and break the soul.

They are still wary of him.

When he walks by, conversations cease, do not resume until he’s well out of earshot; when he looks at someone for more than a few moments, they either work harder than is needed or healthy ( _though what is ‘_ healthy’ _for the undead_?), or tense and still as if expecting an attack.

It’s…strange, but he knows that if they held no hope, they would leave the next time they made port at the so-called Fiddler’s Green.

He carefully makes points in being calm, even when problems arise. The crew are unused to their human bodies and sometimes misjudge things in result; he reprimands them and points out their mistakes, speaking of ways to prevent it’s happening again.

And, though he’s been sailing for quite a time, he is unused to Captaincy and occasionally makes mistakes in his orders; when he does, Bootstrap tells him what he’s done. Sometimes, on good days, the others dare to advise him from the side, but those are few and far between.

It can be…lonely, but he, _they_ have a job to do. Many have been left behind, drifting between  _here_  and  _there_ , and they will have enough time to think about the hands they’ve been dealt—and he can only hope that it’s before the ten years are over.


End file.
